


Entangled

by bigblueboxat221b



Series: Steel Cuffs [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Fluff, Handcuffs, Humor, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-13
Updated: 2017-01-13
Packaged: 2018-09-17 04:57:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9306122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigblueboxat221b/pseuds/bigblueboxat221b
Summary: John's POV during the events ofBound from the Start. Makes much more sense if you read that piece first.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheStarlingsRedstart](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheStarlingsRedstart/gifts).



> Bound from the Start was in response to a Facebook prompt, and then TheStarlingsRedstart commented on that piece, "It's hilarious to imagine Sherlock coming up with this plan..." It took a bit of a turn from that exactly, but nevertheless, I'm happy with this!

“For the last time, Sherlock, we are not drugging your brother!” John shouted, then added, “Ever again.”

Sherlock looked at him, his own exasperation evident on his face.

“They’re so obvious, John,” he whined, “I can’t stand it anymore.”

John sighed and scrubbed one hand over his face. “Let me talk to Greg, okay?”

Sherlock paced, looking moody.

“You promise, Sherlock? Don’t do anything until I’ve had a chance to talk to Greg…” John trailed off then looked closely at Sherlock, reading the expressions on his face anew.

“What have you…you’ve already done it, haven’t you?” He accused.

Sherlock at least had the good grace to look a little abashed. “Nothing was going to happen, John, unless someone did something.”

“What did you do to them? Where are they? Sherlock, answer me!” John was furious, that much was clear.

Sherlock sighed. “Anthea helped me. She’s just as sick of this as we are, driving around after Lestrade at all hours of the day and night so my brother can NOT SHAG HIM!” Sherlock shouted in frustration.

“Where are they, Sherlock?” John asked again, control evident behind the calm tone of his voice. He stood right in front of Sherlock, looking him in the eye with an ‘I’m going to murder you if you don’t answer me’ kind of look. Sherlock liked it, actually. All John’s considerable focus on him made him feel good in some indefinable way.

“Upstairs.” Sherlock answered finally, and John glanced automatically at the ceiling.

“They’re here?” He yelped, and Sherlock nodded.

“Anthea picked them up and gave them something to help them sleep, then we brought them here and handcuffed them together. That was my idea,” Sherlock said with false modesty. John snorted, as though he might actually be impressed by that.

Sherlock went on, “I left them a note, hang on, it’s here actually. I’d better put it under the door.” He waved an envelope at John, who grabbed it and frowned.

“Who’s Graham?” He asked before answering himself, “It’s Greg, you bloody idiot! Change it, will you?” John shoved the envelope back at Sherlock, not bothering to read the note inside.

Sherlock looked surprised at the change to Lestrade’s name, but he crossed out Graham and added ‘Greg’ instead. John followed him as he started climbing the stairs, though he waited at the bottom for Sherlock to slip it under the door. They listened carefully, and behind the heavy door they heard the sounds of someone moving around, as well as the sound of Mycroft’s voice reading something aloud. Satisfied that the message had been received, Sherlock tiptoed back downstairs, expertly skipping all the creaky bits of the staircase.

“What did the note say?” John asked as he filled the kettle. Nothing to do now but wait, he supposed. He listened as Sherlock explained, then looked in astonishment at Sherlock. The detective accepted his tea and appeared, John thought musingly, as though he was a little unsure of his plan.

“It’s not the worst idea in the world,” John conceded. He sat in his chair, hands cupped around his own mug, thinking it through. “They have access to the bathroom, running water…and actually, handcuffing them togethter will make it more likely that they will talk to each other, I suppose.”

Sherlock nodded, looking mollified. “I don’t understand how two people can see each other so often and know so little about each other,” Sherlock said, still grumpy about his (perceived) enforced role in this drama.

John looked uncomfortable, knowing as he did exactly how that could happen. He and Sherlock were a prime example. He raised a pointed eyebrow at Sherlock, who looked confused.

“What?” he said.

John could see that he really had no idea. “I suppose sometimes, people just need a kick in the right direction,” John replied, staring into his tea. Sherlock ‘hmmm’ed at that, and as John thought about it, his mind became clear. Sod it, he thought, I’m going to take some inspiration here. He stood up and grabbed his coat, saying, “Back soon,” though Sherlock may or may not have heard him speak.

Walking outside, John called Mycroft’s number, knowing Anthea would not leave his phone unattended, even if he was tied up, as it were.

“John,” she answered in a neutral tone.

“I need your help,” he said bluntly, and she waited.

“Do you have another set of handcuffs?” John asked.

Anthea chuckled. “Behind you, John,” she answered, and he whirled around to see her standing under the awning of Speedy’s, a set of handcuffs indeed dangling from one forefinger. He closed his phone and took the handcuffs.

“You and Sherlock?” she asked, raising one eyebrow. He nodded grimly, and she passed him a capped syringe, too.

“Should knock him out for about half an hour, no nasty side effects.” She said, winked at him, then walked away.

John looked at the two items in his hands and shook his head. When your love life was reduced to this, he thought, you really were either crazy or desperate. Not stopping to think which applied more aptly to him, he walked back into Baker Street to confront his detective.

+++

Thirty two minutes later, Sherlock awoke. He and John were sitting side by side on the sofa, and as he raised his hand to his head, Sherlock realised he was handcuffed to John. Looking at John in disbelief, he noted the calm but determined expression on John’s face and said flatly, “I assume you did this.”

John nodded silently.

Sherlock kept thinking. “Because…”

Before he could finish, John blurted out, impatient to get the conversation going, “Because I was inspired by your treatment of Greg and Mycroft, okay?”

Sherlock stared, still not putting the pieces together.

John blew out a puff of air, then said, almost angrily, “Because we never talk about real stuff, Sherlock, and this is my chance to say something without you running off, or, funnily enough, Greg or Mycroft interrupting.”

“What about Mrs. Hudson?” Sherlock said smugly.

John replied evenly, “Out with Mrs. Turner. Our treat.”

“Right.” Sherlock looked disconcerted, then he shot a sideways look at John. “So what are we going to talk about, then?” He asked. Looking at his watch, he noted, “They have 20 hours and forty-six minutes upstairs, still.” Automatically they both looked at the ceiling, from which no noise came.

Three possibilities occurred to John. Either Greg and Mycroft were ignoring each other, they were actually having a civil conversation, or that room was more soundproof than they gave it credit for.

Sherlock winced, obviously thinking in the same general direction as John.

John grinned. “What do you think they’re doing?” He asked teasingly, and Sherlock shuddered hard and tried to get up. His wrist stopped abruptly when the handcuffs made themselves known. Flexing for a moment, Sherlock looked at John.

“You know I could pick these in three minutes, right?” He said.

John replied immediately, “Three uninterrupted minutes, yes. But handcuffed to me, you won’t get three uninterrupted minutes, Sherlock.”

The detective huffed, tried to cross his arms and failed before settling for crossing his free arm around his middle and facing as far away from John as he could. John chuckled, settling in happily to wait. Sherlock was stubborn, that was true, but he was also a curious creature, and if he had not yet deduced what John wanted to talk about, the need to know would override any grumpy feelings.

Sure enough, nineteen minutes later Sherlock spoke, though he did not turn his head toward John.

“What is it, then?” Sherlock muttered, and John smiled in triumph, before the nervous feeling that had almost overtaken him earlier returned with a vengeance.

“Um,” John started, then cursed himself. He needed to be eloquent, persuasive. Clearing his throat, he started again, going for keeping it simple. “Tell me what about your brother’s behaviour indicates he is attracted to Greg,” John said, hoping the analogy would figure itself out in Sherlock’s head. Sherlock looked confused, then slightly ill at the thought. John nudged him in the side.

“Come on,” he urged, and Sherlock sighed dramatically.

“Okay, don’t say it, just think it, then,” John capitulated.

Sherlock started speaking anyway. “He hangs around him all the time, there is a pattern related to the status of the cases on which Lestrade is working. He kidnaps him more often when the weather is bad, using the excuse to drop him home to avoid the rain. Mycroft blushes when Greg compliments him at a crime scene and touches him far more than is socially acceptable, plus he had a really annoying way of…” Sherlock rattled on for a while about the colour of Mycroft’s pocket squares and the stability of Greg’s marriage, before John took an opportunity to interrupt.

“Right,” John said, “So Mycroft hangs around him, but acts differently when there’s a case, takes care of him, thinks about keeping him safe, wants him to be happy.” John surmised, watching Sherlock carefully. Sherlock nodded at the analysis. John swallowed hard. “And he blushes when Greg is nice, and he touches Greg more than he strictly should…” John knew all of these things applied to himself with regard to Sherlock, but he had no idea if Sherlock had noticed. Judging by the look of mild confusion on his face, Sherlock had not made the connection. In for a penny, John thought.

“Does that remind you of anyone else’s behaviour?” John asked.

Sherlock frowned. “Is Mycroft flirting with someone else too?” He asked, bewildered.

John figured it was more disbelief that he had noticed something Sherlock had not rather than the actual information, though that would also be surprising.

John shook his head. “Not Mycroft,” John said, then bit his lip before saying, “me.”

“You’re flirting with Greg?” Sherlock said, then answered himself, “Well you’re doing a pretty rubbish job, John, if even I haven’t noticed.” By now, John’s head was in his hands, Sherlock’s hand being dragged along by means of the handcuffs.

“I really don’t understand how your flirting with Greg would result in you handcuffing yourself to…” Sherlock cut himself off, the look of wonder coming over his face as the answer finally hit him.

“Ooh!” he breathed, in that pornographic way John loved.

“Ooooooh!” he repeated, sounding even more like he was in bed with a lover rather than making a synaptic connection. John pulled his mind back firmly to this conversation. Sherlock turned his head to look at John, eyes wide in astonishment.

“You mean you,” he pointed at John, “and me,” he turned the finger at himself, and John nodded hesitantly.

“Oh!” Sherlock said in a small, very non-pornographic way. John had never heard this inflection and he had no idea what it meant.

“How long…” Sherlock asked, then stopped.

“A while,” John answered.

Sherlock nodded mechanically. “And you’re sure…” he started.

John nodded emphatically.

“Even though I’m…” Sherlock hesitated.

John said, “Mad? Brilliant? Completely unique and fascinating?” he smiled. “Yes.”

Sherlock nodded again, and John remained still and quiet, unsure of the processing that was going on inside his detective’s giant brain.

“Well,” Sherlock said finally, his own voice lacking it’s usual conviction. He looked uncertainly at John. “I don’t know…I suppose the only way to know for sure is for us to have sex.”

John, who had been thinking more along the lines of a kiss or two, almost choked at the casual suggestion. “Ah, I was thinking a kiss might be a better place to start, actually.” He said, though some parts of his body were fairly enthusiastic about sex with Sherlock.

Sherlock considered, then nodded. John licked his lips nervously, then dropped his gaze to Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock seemed to be waiting for John, so he leaned in and pressed his lips chastely against Sherlock’s. It barely counted, as far as kisses go, but John felt a thrill nevertheless. After a moment, he moved to pull away, but Sherlock chased him, to John’s surprise, deepening the kiss. John’s hands came up to cup Sherlock’s face, and he sucked on Sherlock’s lower lip, something he had wanted to do just about since he had moved in to Baker Street. Sherlock moaned, and John went to slide his arms around Sherlock, shifting closer on the sofa.

At the clank of metal, he recalled they were still handcuffed together. The kiss broke up as Sherlock also appeared to remember their confinement. John looked at Sherlock, who was now looking smugly at John, the open handcuffs dangling from one wrist. John, still reeling a little from the kiss and the implications thereof, said, “How...”

Sherlock grinned. “You gave me my three minutes, John.”

“You did that while I was kissing you?” John sputtered.

Sherlock said, “It was very nice, I would not be averse to doing it again, John.”

But John Watson had not gained the nickname, ‘Three Continents Watson’ for nothing, and with his hands free, he had far more options at his disposal. He just about dove on Sherlock, running one hand into his hair and the other around his waist, drawing him in close. John used all the skills he had honed over the years, kissing and licking at Sherlock’s mouth, mouthing along the line of his jaw, nipping at the sensitive skin behind his ears. Sherlock was soon moaning, his own hands in John’s hair, on his back, his arse, anywhere he could reach. John was feeling quite satisfied that Sherlock would not be able to concentrate on anything except this, and with any luck he’d have plenty of time to show him lots of other distracting things. Their hips were rocking together now, and John broke away, panting, to look at Sherlock. His hair was a riot, eyes hooded, lips poutier than ever after all the kissing.

“Very nice, hey?” John murmured.

Sherlock groaned, “God, John! More, please…”

John grinned to himself. Mission accomplished, for the moment anyway. He looked at Sherlock, and was about to dive back in to kiss him again when a noise came from upstairs. They both frowned for a moment, trying to place it. In the silence, the strained sound of “God, Mycroft!” reverberated through the room. As John vacillated between horror and giggles, another cry punctuated the room, this time, “Gregory, ohhh…” John couldn’t help it, bursting into giggles and collapsing on Sherlock’s chest. The look on Sherlock’s face, as well as the implications of the sound itself, was too funny not to laugh, and John’s whole body shook, releasing the tension he had not even realised he was feeling. After a moment, he sat up, and Sherlock immediately shot up, grabbed a piece of paper and bolted upstairs, returning almost immediately to the sofa, folding his feet under, knees under his chin.

“What was that?” John asked, his hands reaching automatically now for the hair at the nape of Sherlock’s neck. To his surprise, Sherlock turned to him, burying his face in John’s shoulder as he groaned, “I’m never going to be able to unhear that. Can’t delete it at all!” John chuckled again, and Sherlock answered belatedly, “I gave them the handcuff key, unlocked the door.” He made a face like he’d tasted something foul, then buried his head in John’s shoulder again. The doctor was happy with this new arrangement, and he snaked his arm around Sherlock’s shoulder. They sat like that for a moment, adjusting to the new paradigm, before John suggested, “I can help you with that tension, you know, Sherlock.” Sherlock looked confused, and John elaborated, “You can’t stop thinking about…”

“DON’T SAY IT!” Sherlock hissed urgently.

John put up his hands in surrender. “The thing,” he amended his sentence, “but I can take your mind off it, I’m pretty sure.”

Sherlock looked hopefully at him. “Really?” He said, and it was so innocent that John almost giggled.

John replied, “Really. And some payback, if things go well.” He ran his hand up the back of Sherlock’s thigh where it was tucked up.

Sherlock jerked, then raised his head. “Hmmm, sounds interesting,” he murmured, a little smile coming across his face. After a beat of stillness, they scrambled off the couch and raced for the bedroom, giggling like schoolboys.

_Nineteen hours and fifty one minutes later…_

 

John and Sherlock sat on the couch, freshly showered, fully dressed, and unable to look at each other without breaking into giggles. When the upstairs door opened, and two pairs of footsteps descended the treads, the snickering began in earnest. By the time Greg and Mycroft appeared at the door, John had one hand over Sherlock’s mouth, hoping to stop him from saying anything too incriminating. Sherlock stood, and John was forced to follow him, though his hand slipped from Sherlock’s face.

The four men stood in the sitting room, four faces red with various levels of embarrassment and triumph, four brains thinking equally of their own pleasure and the overheard, enthusiastic evidence of the other couple’s pleasure.

“Brother,” Sherlock said, a broad grin on his face.

“Brother,” Mycroft returned, his ears bright red at the tip.

“Greg,” John greeted him, a knowing smile across his face.

“John,” Greg replied, smirking unashamedly.

“I suppose we’ll see you all at Christmas with Mummy, then.” Sherlock said, then swept out of the room. Mycroft looked murderous and followed his brother, leaving Greg and John alone in the sitting room as the hushed whispers from the kitchen sounded across the space.

“So all good, then?” John said.

Greg nodded. “You too?”

In reply, John just grinned.

Greg said, quietly, leaning in, “Drinks at the pub tomorrow?”

John nodded enthusiastically. “We’re mental, we’ll need all the support we can get,” he said, and they grinned the grins of well satisfied men.

The brothers returned from the kitchen, Sherlock looking smug, Mycroft outraged. Sherlock stood resolutely next to John, twining his fingers, staring defiantly at Mycroft, who rolled his eyes and turned to leave.

Mycroft said primly, “I’m sure Anthea is waiting for us, Gregory.” Greg waved a hand and followed Mycroft, but not before John heard him asking,

“What on earth did Sherlock say, Mycroft?”

 John turned to Sherlock as the external door closed against Mycroft and Greg.

“What did you say, Sherlock?” He asked.

Sherlock looked as innocent as a babe as he answered, “I just pointed out how happy Mummy would be to have us all present at Christmas next month. Mycroft loathes Christmas, and he knows that if Mummy knows he’s seeing Lestrade, he will absolutely have to come to Christmas with Lestrade.”

John grinned, then remembered that he too would be required at Christmas. “Bloody hell,” he said, “this is going to be interesting.”

 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Cover for "Entangled" by bigblueboxat221b](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9491330) by [TheStarlingsRedstart (orphan_account)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/TheStarlingsRedstart)
  * [Cover for "Entangled" by bigblueboxat221b](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9491330) by [TheStarlingsRedstart (orphan_account)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/TheStarlingsRedstart)




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